Wizard Chakra
by Baron Black
Summary: The Hogwarts letter announces the existence of magic to muggleborns. It did so to Harry Potter. But what if he had already known and practiced a different form of magic? What if he had been training himself to be a shinobi?
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own any previously existing characters, plots, or elements.  
The story itself is partially based off of Womgi's Of Wands and Kunai.

The Dursleys had always treated Dudley better. They gave him toys and presents, hugs and kisses filed with affection and praise. When Dudley spoke his first word, when Dudley took his first balanced step-each of these times, Petunia had gone into raptures over her 'talented little darling' while Vernon had spoke prideful words of the manliness of his son and of how he was just like his father.

When these same words were spoken to Harry, they turned into an insult. Into a comparison between the useless nephew and the drunk father and the whore of a mother. Into painful punches and derogatory, biting words. Into being shut up into the cupboard under the stairs, equipped with only a bare mattress, a blanket, and spiders spinning in their silvery grey webs.

Harry loved the cupboard. It was always dark and quiet, a perfect little haven of solitude and freedom from the awfulness of daily life. He wasn't afraid of the spiders. They had always been there as silent, harmless, unresponsive companions. When he was younger, he used to play-act his dreams into the darkness, dreaming up a world where the Dursleys treated him just like they treated Dudley and spoke fondly of his parents, where he was given Dudley's other room to sleep in and where Vernon heaped bacon onto his plate in the mornings and told him that eating it would 'make that scrawny body more healthy.' Where he had piles of gifts on his birthday, clothes that weren't secondhand, and a nickname that wasn't freak. Where he wasn't the reminder of past hatred, but the only remaining memory of her beloved sister to Petunia, where he wasn't the scrounger of hard-earned savings to Vernon but a second son to be loved and treated just like Dudley.

He didn't know why, but one day he stopped dreaming. Maybe it was the fact that he was backhanded and taunted once too much, maybe it was that none of the neighbors seemed to notice the 'birthday tattoo' as the sign of abuse it was. Or maybe, just maybe, he had stopped deluding himself and accepted reality-that he wouldn't ever be loved or even accepted by the Dursleys and that the only one he could ever trust was himself.


	2. Beginnings

Disclaimer: I do not own any previously existing characters, plots, or elements.  
I will try to make the chapters longer as the story continues.

It was a starless dusk. The horizons were a charred ash as far as the eye could see. Wind buffeted the houses of Privet Drive on all four sides, blowing in a haunting musical chord. Today, the neighborhood seemed to have transformed from its usual ugly plainness into a thing of beauty.

It was a weekend night, which meant lawn duty. Harry twisted the handle of the shovel in his hands, glancing down at it disdainfully. He had finished the latest chore, and he had paid the distasteful price. His hands were grimy, while his nails were caked in dirt. He set down the shovel and walked over to the garden hose to wash his hands. Even if he had not been as neat as he was, it would still have been necessary, unless he wanted Petunia to get on his case about dragging mud into the house.

The rusty spout was turned with a squeaky thrust and water gushed out of the hose. Harry bathed his hands in the water, watching the layers of filth being washed away and pooling into a small stream which ran down the tussocks of grass. Once his hands were satisfactorily clean, he turned off the water, wiping his hands on his clothes. Or rather, Dudley's hand-me-downs.

The years had been kind on him, he mused, gazing at his reflection for a moment in the still water. Overly messy black hair framed a pale face while sharp emerald eyes glinted balefully in seeming hatred. His frame was short and scrawny. In another world, another place, it might have been remarked on as petite and cute, and the small moonlit figure standing on the lawn might have been thought of as otherworldly, or even beautiful. Here and now, it was either ignored or looked on only as acceptable, while those who saw the boy thought less of him for his evident out-of-place looks in the midst of an otherwise average family.

He was yanked forcefully out of his thoughts by the grating, screechy voice of Petunia, who he had stopped mentally thinking of as Aunt years ago.

"Boy! Are you done in the lawn?"

Was it worth something, that she never called him freak unless Vernon or Dudley were within hearing range? Was she redeemable, had she ever been, at least before she had married Vernon and been spoiled into a mess of contempt and disgust-

He shook himself out of his thoughts. _Worthless, _something in him chimed. He nodded mentally in agreement at his sudden sentimentality. Even if Petunia had once been more, she was nothing now, and she could not be anything else. Not since she had abused him, not physically as Vernon did but verbally.

Always verbally. He steeled himself, feeling for a second time an invisible weight on him, of oaths unspoken but felt and meant with the entirety of the soul.

_Never, I will never turn back from my determined path._  
"Coming, Aunt Petunia!"


End file.
